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March 26, 2023

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Arts Delmarva Review Top Story

Delmarva Review – Skimmers: A Love Story in Three Parts by Patty McLaughlin

March 25, 2023 by Delmarva Review Leave a Comment

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Author’s Note: “When our children were young, we would spend our summers on Virginia’s Eastern Shore — a much different world from our suburban Delaware existence. Of course, children grow up and away. That is the plan. Writing about this magical time together helps me feel closer to these far-away adults and reminds me to be grateful. Grateful for past adventures and future possibilities.”

Skimmers: A Love Story in Three Parts

I.

WE FIRST MET THESE BIRDS at the end of a hot summer day. Coastal Virginia hot, when it feels like you’re breathing through and wearing a wet wool blanket. We’ve been outside for most of the day. Laughing. Swimming. Fishing. A little sunburnt. Sure, we used sunscreen, but how can you protect so many freckles? Have we had dinner? I hope so, because salt and crumbs are the sole survivors in our Ziploc snack bags. We are quieter now, moving toward stillness and the evening. We take longer breaths. 

The sun is low and dipping behind the water. That time of day when sunglasses make the world a little too dark, yet without them, we all squint. Look at these colors. Everything washed with a pearl finish. Pearly green water meets pearly blue sky. A thin, nearly invisible line marks the horizon between the two. 

The birds are busy. Ospreys high and terns lower, both diving for supper. The noisy gulls provide our summer soundtrack. We sort of miss them when they are silent. Sort of. 

Then we see them. Something different. Steady horizontal flight. Black backs on a white body contrast with this pearly scene. Flying so close to the water their bill drags through it. Rhythmic. Focused. Truly skimming this thin line between sky and bay. And that crazy bill. Red with black. They turn together, ignoring the people, the boats, the gulls. Skimming the surface, riding the in-between. One two three four strokes and turn. One two three birds. 

We inhale. We stare. We hold our breath.

I look at our son and daughter. The dusk glow gives them rosy halos. They are following the flight, and I am following them. 

We exhale, widen our eyes, raise our eyebrows, and look at each other. We remain quiet, our expressions asking the questions—Did you see what I just saw? Did you see those birds? 

We are smitten with these creatures. 

Related to gulls and terns, black skimmers (Rynchops niger) are found exclusively in the Americas and nest on Virginia’s sandy shoreline. 

Resting on the shore, their size (medium) and coloration (black and white) combine to blend them into the shorebird background scenery. They might be easy to miss. Look a little closer, though, and the bill emerges as a differentiating feature. Awkward. Heavy. This is definitely not a gull. (The genus name, Rynchops, is derived from ancient Greek for bill and face.) With a pair of binoculars, you may get a good look at the eyes. Large pupils help maneuver during low light. Keep the binoculars steady, and if you’re lucky, you might see the eyes close vertically to slits to protect from the harsh sun. They are ready for whatever light they encounter. 

Once on the move, no binoculars are needed to witness awkward anatomy morph into graceful flight. The skimmer’s strong wings are set high on the body. Long upstrokes and short downstrokes keep the bird merely inches from the water. Now we begin to understand that bill. A skimmer flies so close to the water that its larger lower mandible drags the surface. Once the skimmer feels a fish, the upper mandible clamps shut. Small groups of skimmers will often fly in lines, turning in unison, back and forth over the same area. Many scientists believe that this rhythmic patterning actually lures in fish. Skimmers are considered crepuscular, meaning they are most active at twilight. Bright light isn’t needed for their technique, and evening fishing usually promises calmer water and more surface prey. Fishing by feel. A uniquely skimmer approach. No other birds behave in this way. 

The urge to dive must be strong. I respect the courage of the tern and the power of the osprey. They need to know exactly where to go and then commit to it with their full body. The skimmer, however, seems more accepting of the present moment, more likely to say—Let’s enjoy the water. The air. The in- between. Let’s just see what will happen. 

II .

ASSATEAGUE. WALLOPS. ASSAWOMAN. Metompkin. Cedar. Parramore. Hog. Cobb. Wreck. Shipshoal. Myrtle. Smith. Fisherman. 

These islands form a seventy-mile outer barrier along Virginia’s Eastern Shore from the Maryland-Virginia line south to the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay. South of Wallops, there is no road access; boat travel is the only way to visit. The islands are harsh natural environments. Homes and other structures that were built by hopeful settlers have long ago succumbed to wind and waves. The narrow sandy stretches earn their “barrier” title by absorbing storm waves and tides, protecting the marshes and mainland behind them. 

These islands and their accompanying bays became our family’s summer escape—our wildness, our adventure. 

During the school year, we lived in suburban Delaware— famous for tax-free shopping and now Joe Biden. Good schools and generous employers made it a wise choice, a safe choice for our family—albeit a little stiff, a little stale. 

Summers always offer an awakening, a welcome respite from routine. Wherever it happens. However, the time is spent. Summer takes the lid off most pots, relieving some built-up pressure and hopefully stirring some stuck routines. Our summers did that and more as we headed south for a season of adventure and possibilities on Virginia’s Eastern Shore. 

True, there is nothing on television. Grouchy reception allows us one or two stations at best, and only if it isn’t windy. And yes, school friends are four hours away. Soon enough, that will matter. But not yet, not now. We had all we needed and wanted—books and boats and time. Time to stay up late, and time to sleep in. Time to explore, to get muddy and messy. 

Sometime before our two beautiful children grew into adults that moved away, before they became teenagers that pushed away, lived the sweet spot of Shell Beach. 

Who wants to go to Shell Beach today? While the short answer is always a quick “yes,” the longer response involves variations on the theme of “have you seen my stuff?” and “can you help me find it?” Hats, sunglasses, and sweatshirts enjoy their own summer adventure by hiding from us. 

With more than three years and several inches in height over her brother, our daughter often assumes a natural leadership role and today helps him collect what is needed. I know we are almost ready when she asks, “Is it the last minute yet? I’m going to the bathroom at the last minute.” 

Bags finally packed with towels, buckets, and extra clothes, we trailer our small gray skiff to Gargatha Landing, always with a stop for our traditional Fig Newtons. 

The sun bakes the parking lot, and there are no trees to shade us. We are patient but uncomfortable as the ritual of launching the boat unfolds. Put the plug in. Undo the straps. Bags in the boat. Hand signals to back up the truck—not too much, a little more, a little more, you’re good now. 

It’s low tide, so once in the boat, we are looking up at the tall green marsh grasses. Each time we launch, the creek looks a little different. Today, we are riding low on Gargatha Creek, taking the turns wide. As we pick up speed, the kids and I yell into the wind and try to match the engine’s noise. The boat bounces us, and anything not secured might fly away. Our daughter’s thick mane of red hair whips around her face. A gust snatches her hat, but she catches it just in time. Our son sees this and quickly removes his Michigan hat. “No way I’m losing this,” he mutters. It’s a beloved accessory, especially after weeks of folding the brim to create the perfect angled look. 

We pull up on the creek side of the island, close to the inlet. Just a low stretch of sand here. One anchor in the sand and one in the water. We tease and tug and adjust until it is just right. Just enough slack. Just enough tension. 

We’ve arrived. 

Metompkin Island will always be Shell Beach to us. On our first visit a few years back, we discovered it was impossible to walk there without stepping on seashells. Sometimes angel wings, sometimes sand dollars. Often jingle shells, limpets, moon snails, scallops, and slipper shells. And always whelk shells. So many whelks. Knobbed and channeled, from thumbnail to nearly forearm length, their colors all the more beautiful because they are muted. You have to look closely to appreciate the pale mauves and peaches swirled with creams and grays. 

Our first few trips there, we wanted them all. We quickly filled buckets with whelk shells, emptied them into the boat, then filled again. It took a full summer of frenzied collection to exhaust the urge to own the beach. Now we limit ourselves to one or two perfect treasures each. Today’s contest has our son and daughter scouring the beach for both the smallest and the largest whelks they can find. 

We leave our shoes and bags near the boat and begin to walk toward the inlet. Dad drops his fishing bucket in the sand and scouts a good place to cast. He tells us he’ll catch up with us later. The kids and I walk along the inlet and turn towards the ocean beach. 

The Atlantic Flyway is an important north–south highway for migrating birds and it passes right over Virginia’s coast. The shape of the Delmarva peninsula, in general, and Virginia’s barrier islands, in particular, create a unique funneling section of the flyway. In the spring and fall, over one hundred thousand birds, from the largest hawks to the smallest songbirds, pass through for a quick rest-and-recovery feed stop. 

But it is summer now, and migration is over. Local birds have settled in to court, mate, nest, and create families. Plovers like to nest on Shell Beach, along with oystercatchers, terns, knots, and, oh yes, our beloved skimmers. So many birds. Being such a critical nesting habitat, the dunes on Shell Beach are closed to foot traffic during nesting season. That’s no problem for us. We walk along the edge of the surf and keep our feet wet. 

Our son is the first to hear a strange buzzing. “What’s that? Listen, guys.” 

We pause our shell scavenging. Initially, the sound is faint, but with just a few steps toward drier sand, it quickly crescendos into a din. Mostly higher pitches, but with lots of different calls. Somewhere in that cacophony is a lower tone. Sounds like a hacking cough to me. Those must be our skimmers. Their strange barking cry has earned them the nickname “seadogs” in some regions. 

We walk just a few steps toward this rowdy avian orchestra, being careful not to get close to any protected areas. We know better. We don’t want to disturb these shorebirds during their vulnerable nesting time. 

And then, finally, we see them. So many birds. There must be hundreds of them. Most are standing sentry on sand. A few are taking short flight above the dunes. Even without binoculars, we can identify some of the larger species: laughing gulls, oystercatchers, and, oh yes, our beautiful black skimmers. 

Skimmers seem to follow the “strength in numbers” motto. They nest in large social groups, often near tern colonies. Terns— island bullies who are small and yet quite aggressive—help protect their nesting neighbors from predators. And the bullies are here in force today. A handful quickly take flight together while we watch our skimmers. They separate from the mob of birds and fly a little closer to us. 

These are least terns, identified by their compact size, yellow bill, black cap, and white forehead. They are hovering near us, almost hummingbird-like, watching us watch them. 

They begin making a strange chirp-like noise, sounding like a frustrated teacher reprimanding the class with a tsk-tsk. 

How cute, I mistakenly think. 

Their reprimands quickly become louder, however, and the tsk-tsk chirping even more insistent, more annoyed. They move in and hover even closer to us. 

I see my son’s worried face and my daughter’s raised eyebrows. 

Before the kids even get a chance to ask, “Are we okay?” the terns begin to repeatedly dive-bomb the sand near us, and with each dive, they move in that much closer. The air around us swirls with buzzing and diving small bodies. 

Reflex kicks in, and our bodies react. 

“Aaaah!” we all scream, covering our heads with our hands and sprinting away from the tern attack. We run toward the inlet and don’t slow until we no longer hear the tsk-tsk reprimands. By the time we stop, we’re winded from running and laughing. The terns are nowhere in sight. We feel equally triumphant, silly, and safe. 

The children’s patience for birding, however, is now understandably gone. It’s hard to follow up the tern debacle with simply standing still and watching skimmers from a distance. 

It’s a short walk to Dad and his fishing gear. The kids move on, but I remain. They are drawn to flight, and I am drawn to the nest. 

I wait, and I watch. Once the terns settle down again, I can get a better look at the adult skimmers. They seem to be standing, guarding their nests, but even with binoculars, I can’t see much detail. Skimmer eggs and nests are nearly impossible to spot. Look for them, and you won’t find any traditional nests here made of twigs, protected high in a tree. On barrier islands, vegetation is scarce, and trees are notably absent. So skimmers nest directly on the sand: vulnerable, exposed. Males scrape saucer-shaped depressions that typically hold four brown-spotted cream eggs. Both parents tend to the eggs, and after about three to four weeks of incubation, the hatchlings emerge. 

Don’t be fooled by a baby skimmer’s appearance of maturity. Despite the hatchlings’ open eyes, and their ability to immediately stand, these down-covered chicks are quite dependent on their parents. Both parents work together to feed and protect their babies for about a month. After four weeks, the young skimmers begin to fly, and after about five weeks, they can fly well enough to fish for themselves. Family units stay together for the season, with the young birds growing stronger and sharpening their fishing skills. 

As I watch, four adult skimmers fly to the surf. Strong black wings. Rhythmic, graceful flight. Up down, up down, and turn. They stay in a line, working the water for a few minutes before returning to their hungry hatchlings. A brief pause on the sand, then they’re off again. I understand this parental imperative. 

The sun is high now, and I’m getting uncomfortably hot. I turn from my vigil and head toward the inlet to find the kids fishing with their dad. 

Everyone is looking a little weary. Time to go home. 

It’s a short walk along the creek side of the island to where we anchored. We load our bags, then climb back into the boat. Our son wins the contest for largest whelk. Our daughter, the smallest. All is well. 

Anchors and lines stowed, we head back. The tide is up now; we ride higher and can see farther where we are going. The wind has picked up, too. We’ve got a bit of chop. Our daughter bounces on the front bench, and our son gets sprayed in the back. Both sensations are welcome, so there is no haggling over seating arrangements. We are subdued, the fast turns provide a breezy refreshment we enjoy privately. Quietly. 

Back at the landing, our ritual unfolds in reverse with hand signals and tie-downs. We load our bags into the truck, and try to wipe sand from our feet before getting in. We’re tired, though, and there’s just too much stuck between our toes. Good enough. 

Soon our children will be pulled into migration mode—off to college, to jobs, to kids of their own. But not yet. Not today. 

We return. Back to our shelter. Our home. 

For us, it is still nesting time. 

III.  

BEAUTIFUL FLIGHT. Rhythmic wing beats.

Up down. Up down and turn.

Up down and keep going.

Migration pulls our Virginia skimmers south, to overwinter and fatten on the southeastern coasts, from Florida all the way to Central and South America. Global habitat loss is a pervasive and powerful threat to all wildlife, and despite Virginia’s protected nesting grounds, skimmers are not immune. Vulnerable, but not considered endangered, skimmers are classified by the Commonwealth of Virginia as a “species of greatest conservation need” and by the United States Fish and Wildlife Service as a “species of high concern.” Both are curious but rather benign designations with little accompanying policy protection. Labels that seem to translate loosely to “let’s just keep an eye on them.” 

Better than nothing, I suppose. 

Migration pulled our children from home as well. Which is as it should be. 

Our daughter followed the Atlantic Flyway a few hundred miles north for love and work and family. Her nurturing role continues—for her spouse, her children, and her students. Middle schoolers can challenge even the most experienced educators, but she offers her classroom a successful and dynamic mix of empathy, respect, and humor. 

Our son flew against the prevailing westerlies to establish his nest, finding love and purpose three thousand miles away. The Michigan hat is long gone, but his deep compassion remains and is now fully matched with self-confidence. A powerful mix. He is drawn to union organizing and is fully committed to helping workers find and strengthen their voices. 

True, neither of them is endangered, but they will always remain my “species of concern.” 

I see them all much less often now, kids and skimmers alike. 

Behind our current home, our floating dock lazily rides the three-foot tidal pulse of Mattawoman Creek, a small finger-like extension of Chesapeake Bay. At high water, we have just enough depth to launch our small Whaler. Low tide reveals mud flats and secrets that were covered only hours ago: oyster clumps, raccoon tracks, and fiddler crab holes. We watch great blue herons and great egrets feeding in the shallows. Our skimmers are nowhere in sight. They much prefer to keep their feet clean and out of this soft marshy muck. 

Certainly, memories loom larger as visits become less frequent. It’s been many years since our last Shell Beach adventure. I can always close my eyes, though, and see freckled faces warmed by the sun. Kids exploring and splashing. Skimmers feeding with that meditative movement—up down, up down, and turn. Skimming versus diving. 

Diving requires a goal that is clearly defined and aggressively pursued. I would like to say my diving days are over, but that isn’t fully true. I’m learning to let go, but I still feel the seductive pull of a well-crafted list and the inflated satisfaction of items ticked off. 

Increasingly, though, my lists shorten. Skimming makes ever more sense. Recognizing the tension between possibilities. Enjoying the transitions. Sea and air. Land and sea. Pulling tight and letting go. Nesting and migrating. Childhood and adulthood. Adulthood and elderhood. Skimming the in-between. Up down, up down, and turn. Let’s see where this will take us today. 

⧫

Patty McLaughlin is a retired educator, currently living on the Eastern Shore of Virginia. Delmarva Review is pleased to publish her first essay in its 15th anniversary edition. 

Delmarva Review selects the best of new poetry, fiction, and nonfiction from thousands of submissions during the year. Designed to encourage outstanding writing from authors everywhere, the literary journal is a nonprofit and independent publication. Support comes from tax-deductible contributions and a grant from Talbot Arts with funds from the Maryland State Arts Council. Website: www.DelmarvaReview.org

 

Filed Under: Delmarva Review, Top Story

Chesapeake Lens:  “They’re Back!” By Paul Fine

March 25, 2023 by Chesapeake Lens Leave a Comment

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Nothing announces spring like the return of our ospreys from their winter habitats. This pair makes repairs their nest on the Miles River. “They’re Back!” by Paul Fine.

Filed Under: Chesapeake Lens, Top Story

Dad Jokes by Angela Rieck

March 24, 2023 by Angela Rieck Leave a Comment

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Dad jokes have recently become popular, especially on Twitter.

What is a Dad Joke? A Dad Joke is a short, rarely funny, but sometimes amusing, joke. Frequently, Dad Jokes are puns or one-liners. (In my experience, the only people who think puns are funny are those who are telling them.) Since they are Dad Jokes, often the humor can be understood and appreciated by children.

So, I decided to look into the history of Dad Jokes. While these jokes have been around forever, the derivation of this term has a nebulous history—mainly because I couldn’t find its history.

Some attribute its nomenclature to a 1987 Gettysburg Times column under the headline “Don’t ban the ‘Dad’ jokes; preserve and revere them.” A sitcom and an Australian quiz show used the term regularly and may have been responsible for its current name.

Perhaps there is someone out there who has a definitive origin story, but for now, we can just say that these harmless, sweet jokes have gained popularity. You can find a daily Dad Joke on Twitter, and a weekly Dad Joke on a sports show.

It is just a light touch to the day. My nephew sends his father a Dad Joke each day and my brother-in-law forwards them to us. Here are couple of my nephew’s jokes just to make you (perhaps) chuckle.

  • I’m afraid for the calendar. Its days are numbered.”
  • My husband has been gone for a week. The police said to prepare for the worst, so I went to the Thrift Store and bought his clothing back.
  • Plateaus are the highest form of flattery.
  • Received a text from the wife saying that she was breaking up with me. Imagine how relieved I was when a couple of minutes later she texted: ‘sorry, wrong number.’
  • Tesla founder Elon Must is originally from South Africa, which is strange. You’d think that he was from Mad-at-gas-car.
  • Remember when plastic surgery was a taboo subject? Now you mention Botox, and nobody raises an eyebrow.
  • Two antennas got married. The wedding was okay, but the reception was incredible.
  • Which body part is the most reliable? Well, you can always count on your fingers.
  • Did you know that Albert Einstein had a younger brother named Frank? He was a monster.
  • I got in a fight with 1,3,5,7 & 9. The odds were against me.
  • People call me self-centered. But that is enough about them.
  • You think gas prices are high, have you seen chimneys? They’re through the roof.
  • Can trees poop? Yes, how else do we get Number 2 pencils? (Kids love this one.)
  • They’ve tried to improve the efficiency of wind farms by playing country music around them, but it’s not working because they’re big heavy metal fans.
  • What’s the best thing about Switzerland? I don’t know, but the flag is a big plus.
  • Dad, can you put my shoes on? Sorry, but I don’t think they’ll fit me.
  • The salesclerk asks a customer at paint store: Do you wanna box for that? Reply: No, I am against violence, can I pay with a credit card instead?
  • I used to play piano by ear. Now I use my hands.
  • You know, people say they pick their nose, but I was just born with mine.
  • What did the fish say when he hit the wall? Dam.

Oh well, it was a slow news day…

Angela Rieck, a Caroline County native, received her PhD in Mathematical Psychology from the University of Maryland and worked as a scientist at Bell Labs, and other high-tech companies in New Jersey before retiring as a corporate executive. Angela and her dogs divide their time between St Michaels and Key West Florida. Her daughter lives and works in New York City.

Filed Under: Angela, Top Story

First Impressions and Second Chances by J.E. Dean

March 22, 2023 by J.E. Dean 6 Comments

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I’ve been lambasted by a number of Spy readers after declaring Everything Everywhere All at Once trash after watching only 20 minutes of the film. I was called unprofessional, stupid, bigoted, and worse. The more polite readers shared their experiences with the film, with several indicating that they, too, found the opening of the film tedious or chaotic but came to like, or even love the film after giving it a chance.

Setting aside the name-calling, the Spy readers who criticized me are right, sort of.  If I could write the piece again, I would watch the entire movie before commenting on it.  But I say “sort of” because what I did—rely on a first impression—is something most of us do most of the time.  

I trust my gut, rely on my own eyes, and “know what I like.”  But I also agree with Ronald Reagan’s advice of trust but verify.  I “verify” when my first impression leaves enough of a doubt that I suspect error or conclude that my first impression is not sufficient to serve as the basis for a conclusion.

Over the years, I have reached thousands of conclusions based on first impressions and live comfortably with those conclusions every day.  Some conclusions may be wrong, but if they have minimum impact on others, what is the harm in living with them?  As I see it, it is my business.

A few examples of first impressions that led to conclusions are my distrust of Fiat and Chevrolet branded vehicles. I worked at a gas station in Germany many years ago and encountered what I recall was an endless string of mechanical failures that the drivers of the Fiats who stopped in for gasoline had experienced.  I remember parts falling off the interiors of the cars and owners seeking help in reattaching them. In the case of Chevrolets, a friend had a miserable little car called a Chevette (not to be confused with a Corvette).  One day we were driving down Route 95 and the engine suddenly died. I have not trusted a Chevy since.

Other examples of first impressions include food (if the first bite tastes awful, the rest likely will stay the same), music (if the first few bars cause a headache, the remainder could kill you), and politicians (Trump lost me in 2015 with his bigoted rhetoric as he rode down a golden escalator to announce his candidacy for the presidency.)

If I extrapolated the criticism I received on my comments on Everything Everywhere, I would buy a Fiat and drive it for a year or two to determine whether the company has resolved its quality issues. I would give Donald Trump a second chance, reread The Art of the Deal and a dozen or so of his other books, and quit describing him as a threat to American Democracy.

As you might guess, I’m not about to shut up about Trump until he leaves the political stage. In so doing, I accept that I will continue to provoke anger on the part of his base of supporters, whom, by the way, seem to consist of people who seem indifferent to sedition, sexual harassment, grift, racism, and a lot more.  

Speaking out against Donald Trump is, in my view, doing readers a favor.  Even if my “research” on Trump is incomplete, if my opinion prompts anyone to reconsider their support of Trump, I am doing good.

Similarly, when I offer an opinion about Easton, saying that it is a great place to live or visit, I confess that there are things about Easton that I don’t know.  Maybe if I knew more about Easton I would tell people to visit Chestertown or Cambridge before visiting Easton.  Is that a problem? Is it unprofessional to praise Easton, endorse a restaurant where I enjoyed a good meal, or to opine that Toyota makes better cars than another company?  I do not think so. 

Even when writing comments on the Oscar awards and particular movies, I think it is OK to share one’s opinions.  A condition on commenting, of course, is that one’s comments should not be racist or hurtful to anyone.  But advising people to avoid particular films, silence certain music, support Ukraine in repelling Russia, and to embrace social equity and justice, is not wrong.  Isn’t opinion writing what that term means—sharing opinions?  When a writer puts his or her name on a piece, it implies it is an opinion. And for those who accused my criticism of Everything Everywhere of being racist, how do they defend the gratuitous violence against police and IRS agents in the film?

After reviewing the criticism of my criticism of Everything Everywhere, I have decided to continue to offer opinions on politics, culture, social justice, and even movies. I made that decision after reading and considering the comments I received. I did not read every comment, but I read enough to know that I should have watched all of Everything Everywhere before commenting on it.  I also am confident that had I watched the entire film, I still would not have liked it.  It is not a crime to admit that. And, come to think of it, I told my readers I had not watched the entire film before condemning it as “trash” so they could take that into account in deciding whether my opinion was worthy of their consideration. 

J.E. Dean is a retired attorney and public affairs consultant writing on politics, government, and other subjects. 

 

Filed Under: J.E. Dean, Top Story

Out and About (Sort of): Ceaseless Controversy by Howard Freedlander

March 21, 2023 by Howard Freedlander 4 Comments

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From the first time I immersed myself in Maryland General Assembly machinations, I learned that one subject never vanished: abortion.

It has been a constant source of heated controversy. I never understood why. I still am perplexed. Discussion consumes an inordinate amount of valuable public policy time. Relationships among legislators fray.

Due to recent action by the current House of Delegates and State Senate, legal abortion will be decided in a public plebiscite in 2024. Voters will vote on a referendum to determine if abortion rights should be incorporated into the state constitution.

If I could vote early, my vote would be resoundingly yes. It will not change. I am keenly aware that a large segment of the population would think differently, passionately so.

My reasoning is simple. The choice of an abortion belongs solely to a woman and her doctor. It does not rest in the hands of politicians, nor in the Catholic Church. The decision is intensely personal.

Moreover, abortion as part of public policy debate pales in comparison in terms of importance to discussion of the minimum wage, water quality, crime prevention, poverty reduction, quality education and climate control.

The referendum will elicit strong, well-organized opposition from the Catholic and evangelical churches as well as a slew of interest groups. Equally adamant proponents of abortion will state their arguments. Verbal combat will be relentless.

The unfortunate Supreme Court decision overturning Roe vs. Wade, in June 2021, placing abortion rights under the purview of the states, catalyzed the Maryland General Assembly to enthrone abortion in the state constitution should voters approve the referendum.

If the referendum, which undoubtedly will prompt non-stop advocacy on both sides, is approved, maybe abortion rights will no longer stir strong emotions in our state. For me, that would be a welcome relief. The citizenry could invest its energy and passion in other causes.

I spend little or no time debating the age-old conundrum about when an embryo becomes a person. This comment will shock abortion opponents. What I concentrate on is choice; an abortion represents a clear statement of a woman’s desire to be a mother. Should a woman have no wish to be a parent—indicative of her disinclination to provide love and care—then she ought to have the right to abort prior to “fetal viability,” except in consultation with a doctor when a woman’s life is in danger, as stipulated in Maryland law.

Ideally a woman feels capable of raising a child with abundant, unconditional love. That obviously is not the case in multiple instances. Giving birth to a child and putting him or her up for adoption is also a sensible option too. I have met people who were adopted, led wonderful lives and then sought out their birth parents. The result is heartwarming in most cases.

My attitude toward pregnancy is far from being cavalier. Parenting is difficult and demanding. Should a woman choose an abortion to avoid the responsibility of raising a child, then I respect that decision.

Chances for an unloved child to lead a satisfying life are minimal.

I applaud the state legislature for placing the terribly fraught subject of abortion before the public as a referendum. The decibel level of the arguments for and against a woman’s right will be deafening. I would hope that abortion will be protected once and for all in Maryland through a constitutional amendment.

We can clear the public arena for other substantive topics and dialogue.

We can protect a woman’s reproductive rights.

We can respect, rather than demean a woman’s decision.

We can ensure that freedom of choice is a valued right as a Marylander.

We can sustain a tolerant, compassionate culture in our state.

Columnist Howard Freedlander retired in 2011 as Deputy State Treasurer of the State of Maryland. Previously, he was the executive officer of the Maryland National Guard. He also served as community editor for Chesapeake Publishing, lastly at the Queen Anne’s Record-Observer. After 44 years in Easton, Howard and his wife, Liz, moved in November 2020 to Annapolis, where they live with Toby, a King Charles Cavalier Spaniel who has no regal bearing, just a mellow, enticing disposition.

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Clarity by Jamie Kirkpatrick

March 21, 2023 by Jamie Kirkpatrick 4 Comments

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Clarity

Not much is clear these days. In fact, quite the contrary. Obscurity, obfuscation, evasiveness, deception abound, while clarity seems to be dwindling away. What’s gone wrong?

One of my favorite television shows is “CBS Sunday Morning.” It never fails to illuminate people, ideas, or events by shining its klieg lights and cameras into dusty corners, allowing us to see what is often unobserved or overlooked. Just yesterday, it aired a feature on a blockbuster exhibition of Johannes Vermeer’s masterpieces at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam: 28 of his 37 known paintings, the largest assembly of Vermeer’s work ever presented in one location. Don’t bother to apply for tickets: all 450,000 tickets were sold out within a few hours. But don’t despair: there is a free, interactive online exhibition called “Closer to Johannes Vermeer” that is the next-best-thing to seeing Vermeer’s work in person.

During his lifetime, Vermeer was only a moderately successful regional genre painter who specialized in scenes of everyday life. He worked slowly and used expensive pigments that exquisitely rendered the light, color, texture, and detail of everyday life in 17th Century Holland. But he died in relative obscurity, leaving his wife and children in considerable debt. It took two centuries for his work to be rediscovered, but now, thankfully, Vermeer is considered to be one of the two greatest painters of the Dutch Golden Age. The other is Rembrandt.

I am hardly an art historian, but to me, Vermeer’s genius is his ability to render everyday life with stunning clarity. Water in a gutter glistens. A pearl earring shimmers. A fleeting expression is just that: fleeting. A gesture or a hint of movement—a woman sewing, another sweeping, a third and fourth scrubbing—gives life to the most mundane of moments. Cracked plaster and bricks are warmed by the sun. Leaded window glass wavers. Milk dribbles from a pitcher. An oriental rug captures and holds both afternoon light and shadow. A glass globe reflects a room and the objects within it allowing the viewer to see both into and out of simple domestic life.

Vermeer has been accused of using a device—something akin to a camera obscura—that enabled him to go beyond painting and embrace his subjects with almost photographic reality. That theory has been debunked and scholars and x-ray technology now point us in the direction of something called the pin-and-string theory that might have enhanced Vermeer’s uncanny ability to render perspective. Was he cheating? I’m not qualified to say, but anything that enabled him to see more clearly is OK by me. I like clarity, especially when its’s almost five-hundred years old.

Which brings me back around to my starting point: we’ve lost—or are quickly losing—the ability to see things as they are. Clarity is suspect. Artificial intelligence, ChatGPT, Voice Mimicry and a whole host of sketchy algorithms have loosed the hounds of deception, making truth and clarity susceptible to all manner of lies and falsehoods. There has never been a time when we need to see clearly more than now, but for some reason, we’ve never been more manipulated into seeing not what is real, but what someone else wants us to see. Vermeer’s genius, even if it was enhanced by using a camera obscura or pins and strings, is nothing compared to what bombards us daily on today’s platforms.

We believe what we believe at our own peril.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. Two collections of his essays (“Musing Right Along” and “I’ll Be Right Back”) are available on Amazon. Jamie’s website is musingjamie.net.

Filed Under: Jamie, Top Story

DeSantis, Pretender? By Al Sikes

March 20, 2023 by Al Sikes 2 Comments

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There certainly should be a teenage exception. And, I would extend it to say 30 years old. In short, humans should be forgiven if in their 40s or beyond they contradict their earlier words or actions. But….

As a Congressman, Governor of Florida Ron DeSantis, urged then President Barack Obama to send “offensive and defensive” weapons to Ukraine. He stated in a radio exchange with Bill Bennett, “I think when someone like Putin sees Obama being indecisive, I think that whets his appetite to create more trouble in the area. And I think if we were to arm the Ukraine, I think that would send a strong signal to him that he shouldn’t be going any further.”

Now, before I go any further, I will admit to agreeing with the earlier version of DeSantis’s “thinking”. But, this is a column about thinking not about foreign policy.

The latest version of DeSantis’s thinking on the Russia-Ukraine war is, “while the United States has many vital national interests…becoming further entangled in a territorial dispute between Ukraine and Russia is not one of them”. Donald Trump was quick to jump saying, “Whatever I want he wants”. Perhaps Trump is right but my greater concern is that DeSantis engaged in casual recklessness.

DeSantis laid out his views in response to a Tucker Carlson questionnaire. First tier candidates, if they are thinking, should avoid self-defeat. DeSantis had spoken the week before at a prestigious event at the Ronald Reagan Library. Why not assess the war and our support as the Gipper (Ronald Reagan) peers down?

My views about the geopolitical consequences of withdrawing our support, treating the war as a territorial dispute, are just that, my views, of no particular consequence. But DeSantis, a leading figure in the Republican Party, and a potential successor to Joe Biden? He showed an egregious lack of humility and regard for America’s position abroad.

If DeSantis had just finished a tour of Ukraine and its immediate neighbors and then dropped by NATO headquarters for an insider briefing, he would arguably deserve to be taken seriously. His statement, given that we are a two-Party democracy, nudged the United States toward the indecisive—a stance he worried about when Barack Obama was President.

The Governor has been effective on a number of fronts. He has a command and control approach that resulted in a rapid completion of a temporary causeway from Ft. Myers to Sanibel after Hurricane Ian. And as most know who have followed his time in office, he is a traditionalist when it comes to cultural issues; not hesitating for example to take on what he considered a “Woke Disney”. But now he has done everything but announce he is running for President.

Consequential Presidential candidates must ask and answer a cascade of questions before going public on major foreign policy challenges. Foreign policy is America’s policy—it should certainly be debated at home. But when we face the Atlantic or Pacific, as much as possible we should project power, not division.

And, more specifically, how will a leading politician’s questionnaire blurb be used by Vladimir Putin? Now an accused “war criminal”, as the International Criminal Court has issued a warrant for his arrest. As propaganda, for sure. And, perhaps as an excuse not to negotiate until the American election.

DeSantis also indicates he thinks China is our priority. It is certainly one of them. So how will Xi Jinping interpret the DeSantis “thinking?” Irresoluteness tends to travel. It is hard to imagine that Xi will perceive the DeSantis flip-flop as a signal to Taiwan that America has your back.

My advice to DeSantis; pay attention to your senior US Senator, Marco Rubio, who alluded to his lack of preparation. To paraphrase Rubio, Tallahassee (Florida’s capitol) is not where foreign policy is made.

Al Sikes is the former Chair of the Federal Communications Commission under George H.W. Bush. Al writes on themes from his book, Culture Leads Leaders Follow published by Koehler Books. 

Filed Under: Al, Top Story

Ida: The Germanic Word for Happy by Kate Emery General

March 20, 2023 by Kate Emery General Leave a Comment

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“Do not stop thinking of life as an adventure. You have no security unless you can live bravely, excitingly, imaginatively; unless you can choose a challenge instead of competence.” – Eleanor Roosevelt

My Dad’s mom, Ida, was born in New York City in 1888, her mother died in child birth leaving her in the care of a nursery maid and the housekeeper. My great grandfather (a railroad executive) remarried a wonderful woman who became a loving mother to Ida. Her childhood days were filled with her studies, she had a tutor who inspired her love of Science, especially astronomy. Ida was very musical, she had a beautiful singing voice and was an accomplished organist. Ida was an avid horse woman, riding sidesaddle on the riding paths near her home.

After the death of her stepmother, Ida became very adept at running a household with the housekeeper and cook’s help, of course. Ida looked at a solar eclipse without proper eye protection in her early 20’s which nearly blinded her. Despite her weak eyesight, Ida joined one of the local hunt clubs and began wearing jodhpurs and sitting astride on an English saddle. As a young woman with many opportunities in life, my grandmother became involved with a philanthropic group whose mission was promoting educational opportunities for women. One of Ida’s volunteer jobs was reading to children at the local orphanage. As a devout Episcopalian, Ida quickly stepped in when the church organist died.

My grandfather, Wilson, an only child, living with his widowed mother, pumped the organ while Ida played at church every Sunday and they fell in love. Wilson went on to Yale for his bachelor’s and a doctorate in geology but that was not enough for Ida’s father to approve her hand in marriage, Wilson needed a job and a home. Wilson spent seven years riding horseback and sleeping under the stars all over Colorado, Texas, and Wyoming working for Ohio Oil. When he was given a company car and a house, Ida took the train with her future mother in law from New York to Wyoming to be married. The two women who left the bustling streets of New York City were greeted by huge tumbleweeds blowing down the wild, dusty streets of Laramie, Wyoming. Luckily, the luxurious Connor Hotel with indoor plumbing and electric lights, was a short drive from the train station.

In 1919, Laramie was still a Frontier town whose site was determined by the Union Pacific Railroad. Cattle and sheep ranches, hunting and trapping, and the oil fields were the primary employers of Laramie residents. After my grandparents quiet marriage ceremony at St. Matthew’s Episcopal Cathedral, cowboys were racing their horses in front of the hotel whooping it up and shooting their guns. My great grandmother was terrified that the cowboys were there to kidnap Ida and Wilson and insisted that Ida stay the night with her. It turns out that there were two newlywed couples in the hotel that night. Thankfully, the Shivaree was for the other couple who were kidnapped and dunked in a horse trough while being serenaded by the group of raucous cowboys.

Married life with an oil man was always full of surprises, the family was transferred every two to three years. My grandfather climbed to the top of the corporate ladder and retired at 65 years old. My grandparents spent their retirement traveling the world, they rode elephants in Africa and drank Sake and slept on futons in Japan. Ida never took to the Western style of horseback riding, she rode her English saddle until her 60’s. She never really learned to cook but loved to entertain and would host lavish dinners.

Some of my favorite memories were with “Grandma,” I had a weekly invitation to dinner at her house, her cook always prepared my favorite foods; lamb chops, mashed potatoes, sautéed spinach, asparagus, and chocolate eclairs. We would sit in her bedroom and I would go through her jewelry box, she would tell me the stories of each piece. She had several of her jeweled hat pins made into rings for me. I have her cameo bracelet and brooch that she bought in Italy, several gold chokers, and the creepy ring containing her dead mother’s hair (popular during the Victorian Era).

Grandma was a brave, optimistic woman who always had a kind word for everyone. She witnessed many important inventions such as the telephone, cars, planes, penicillin, helicopters, nuclear bomb, microwave ovens, seat belts, polio vaccine, and the first man on the moon. She grieved over the deaths of her husband and both of her sons, but she lived life to the fullest every single day of her 91 years. I sometimes look in the mirror and see my grandmother, Ida, looking back at me, she is my history.

Filed Under: Top Story

The Center of the Universe by Laura J. Oliver

March 19, 2023 by Laura J. Oliver Leave a Comment

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The six of us gathered in a wide open field shouldered by forests—the brown of winter surrendering to spring’s tender green. On the staff of a regional magazine, I was accompanying a feature writer we’d hired on a hot air balloon flight over the patchwork of farms that comprise Maryland’s eastern shore. A new day blushed on the horizon. The balloon, Azure Mountains Majesty, was spread out on the ground uninflated but was already attached to the basket and burner, her crew getting her ready to rise. It looked safe enough. 

We were a small group, which included Bruce (our pilot), the writer, publisher, and chase car crew. The air carried the scent of magnolia blossoms from the south, but spring was in her infancy, and assuming it would be cooler aloft, I wore jeans, sneakers, and a rose-colored SPCA volunteer t-shirt beneath a gray sweater. 

A fan began blowing pristine morning air into the nylon envelope, inflating it above the tethered gondola until the balloon stood upright, magnificent in all her glory. A pattern of linked violet triangles in varying heights encircled her against a yellow and peach background –much like distant mountains at sunrise—much like stained glass. 

We climbed awkwardly into the wicker gondola, standing in closer proximity to each other than we might have otherwise, like strangers in an elevator. Our pilot, blond, cheerful, in his early forties, climbed aboard as well, fired the propane burner, ordered the crew to release the tethers, and we began our ascent. 

Sound is a pressure wave moving through a medium—in the case of an earthquake, earth– in this case, air. So, while our planet is a rich soundscape, as you travel up it gets quieter and quieter until in space, with only 10 atoms to be found in a cubic meter, sound disappears. 

We weren’t going that high, but as the balloon rose higher and higher, we spoke less and less. Eventually the few comments were only murmurs, whispers. Bisected by roads, miles of farmland lay beneath us waiting to become lush fields of corn, emerald soybeans, and golden wheat. 

At cruising altitude, we stopped speaking altogether. We had entered a church, a temple of air. Far, far below we could see the chase car, flying without sound along back country roads to keep up, and a fox, flowing plume of a tail, racing silently through the rows of corn stalks, but it was as if we had entered a cathedral, our silence the held breath of a congregation before the benediction. Maybe we embodied a benediction. In the face of perfection, the heart holds only goodwill. 

The pilot fired the burner from time to time to keep us aloft, the soft whoosh of flame periodically interrupting the silence. Movement without sound. It made me think of the month I watched Halley’s comet transit the earth, sailing in silence through the solar system. It made me think of falling stars. We traveled at the speed of the wind; therefore, we felt no wind.  Einstein was right, everything is relative. The speed of light, the speed of sound, the frequency of memory.

There is an anomaly, however, where silence unexpectedly imprisons the chaos of noise on the ground.  These places are called “sound shadows.” Places where sound being generated in plain sight is inaudible. It’s intriguing because our senses tell us that what we can see we should be able to hear, yet this isn’t always so. One sound shadow is in downtown Tulsa. Dubbed, “The Center of the Universe,” it is a small concrete circle set within a larger circle of bricks in a town square. Bizarrely, if you stand in the center and speak, or even shout, a distortion of your words echoes back to you, yet they are inaudible to people just yards outside the circle.

This same phenomenon caused the decimation of troops in multiple battles in the Civil War.  Gettysburg, Seven Pines, Five Forks, Perryville. Commanders relying on being able to hear nearby battles begin in order to time the sending of reinforcements, waited just out of sight, perhaps a mile away, in utter silence, oblivious to the fact that the raging battles were already underway. 

Witnesses looking just across the valley at the battle of Gaines’s Mill, for instance, could see the advance of the Confederate army, could watch 50,000 soldiers in bloody conflict for over two hours, and yet not hear a sound, as if they were watching through glass. 

On the shore the sun was rising, the air heating up, and Azure Mountains Majesty needed to descend. It was going well, the chase car close. “Hang on to something,” Bruce advised. “Sometimes things get a little rough.”  I reached for a strut just as we hit a thermal, dropped fast and seconds later slammed into the ground. The basket tipped, dragged another 20 yards, regained some buoyancy, still flying just feet above the earth, and hit hard again, like a stone skipped on a lake. When we finally came to rest, I was hurt but embarrassed and didn’t want to show it. Thrown off his feet, the writer’s body had crushed us both against the side of the gondola and I’d bitten my lip. I did what I always seem to do when I’m hurt. Thanked everyone. (I know, I know.) But my appreciation was genuine—we’d just left church. 

Although we were strangers, we’d just taken communion. 

Is gratitude the medium through which love travels? Or like light does it fill the cosmos because that’s all there is?  Maybe love can’t be diminished. Once experienced, it can only grow. 

I have a theory. The love of untold civilizations, the affection of hearts more numerous than stars in the sky, is a never-ending energy radiating up towards the heavens from this sound-filled planet.

Hold your breath. Listen closely. If I were to say I love you, could you hear me now?

Laura J. Oliver is an award-winning developmental book editor and writing coach, who has taught writing at the University of Maryland and St. John’s College. She is the author of The Story Within (Penguin Random House). Co-creator of The Writing Intensive at St. John’s College, she is the recipient of a Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Award in Fiction, an Anne Arundel County Arts Council Literary Arts Award winner, a two-time Glimmer Train Short Fiction finalist, and her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her website can be found here.

 

Filed Under: Laura, Spy Top Story, Top Story

Delmarva Review: The Bricks of Baltimore by Michael Salcman

March 18, 2023 by Delmarva Review 1 Comment

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Author’s Note: “I believe I started writing ‘The Bricks of Baltimore’ after I read an article in The Baltimore Sun on the 10th of March 2021 about the deconstruction of Baltimore through the removal of bricks from Sparrow’s Point and a variety of other sites in our city. I was especially moved by the fact that the bricks were then taken to Washington and used for purely decorative purposes in expensive condominiums. I was further astounded by the fact that one could ‘source’ the bricks to different neighborhoods through a variety of colors and striations. By the end of October the poem had undergone six major revisions and was accepted for publication by The Delmarva Review.”

The Bricks of Baltimore

Forty miles to Washington on Route 95,
the bricks go south a truck at a time
in a funeral procession to their final rest
in the false facades of other peoples’ homes,
their faces power-washed and dried by hand.

In the apartment blocks of the rich the bricks
of Baltimore are more than a painful metaphor
of how a city of wasps has sucked out the wealth
from its darker sister like a carnivorous insect.

The city’s ruination began when Beth Steel closed
its giant plant at Sparrow’s Point
and thirty-five thousand good-paying jobs left us
a town of spavined rowhouses with marble stoops
and neighborhoods emptied of workers.

You can guess their origin by a brick’s color and heft:
orange examples from a dumpster on Chase,
the oldest looking born on Federal Street and a few
with vertical stripes from Fenwick Avenue.

The folks in the DC condos are deaf to any rumors
of a past, our old bricks serving for surface decoration
don’t carry the weight of the walls as they did
when the national wealth was more equally spread
when the sixth largest city always had more, not less.

⧫

Michael Salcman is a retired physician and teacher of art history in Baltimore. He is past chair of neurosurgery at University of Maryland and past president of Baltimore’s Contemporary Museum. He is a child of the Holocaust and a survivor of polio. His poems appear in Barrow Street, Cafe Review, Harvard Review, Hudson Review and Smartish Pace. Collections include The Clock Made of Confetti, A Prague Spring, Before & After (Sinclair Prize), Shades & Graces (inaugural winner Daniel Hoffman Legacy Book Prize), and Necessary Speech: New & Selected Poems (Spuyten Duyvil, 2022). Website: www.msalcman.com

Delmarva Review selects the best new poetry, fiction, and nonfiction from thousands of original submissions during the year. Designed to encourage outstanding writing from authors everywhere, the literary journal is a nonprofit and independent publication. Support comes from tax-deductible contributions and a grant from Talbot Arts with funds from the Maryland State Arts Council. Website: www.DelmarvaReview.org

Filed Under: Delmarva Review, Top Story

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